[Oh. One, two, three: just like that. Fugo reaches out to him, words as sharp and warm as the fingers digging into his skin. Giorno, Giogio, Haruno, and--oh, god.]
God, [is what he says, or breathes out, because it's just too quiet to be a statement of fact. Fugo is so, so, so--reactive. Such a little thing, and he's twisting away and closer all at once, overwhelmed and so obviously pleased all at the same time. That, and the rest of it, it's just . . .]
[God. Fugo's got to be indulging him, at least partly; after all of this, he knows how much Giorno wants him, how not giving him more would be absolute agony, how he's spent a truly ridiculous amount of time thinking about touching him until he falls apart. There's a moment when he wants, more than anything, to lean in and drop every single thing he's thought about into Fugo's ear, to hold him close and run his fingers along Fugo's skin so lightly it's a little bit cruel. But.]
[If Fugo said it like that, his name--his names--and please, please, so needy, there's nothing in the world Giorno wouldn't do for him.]
[. . . Hm.]
Fugo, [he starts, mouth so dry he has to lick his lips before he can speak clearly.] I need you to know. I--
[I, I, I. But it was never really about him, was it? It was about them. It was about Fugo and him and where they meet, and how they meet, and how all the things there aren't words for can be said like this if they try hard enough. He wants to be as close to Fugo as he can and more. He wants to show Fugo with his hands and his mouth that he's worth everything in the world. That he deserves to feel good whenever he wants to. And how awfully, desperately Giorno wants to be the one to give him that.]
[He's quiet for a moment, just . . . looking. Staring intently at Fugo, so pink and so hazy. No amount of thinking about Fugo in this state could ever measure up to the reality. There's no inventing someone like Fugo. There just isn't.]
[Then, purposefully, he hooks his hand under Fugo's thigh. His fingers drift up and down for a moment or two; then they close and tug him forward, pull him in towards Giorno even as Giorno leans over him, his other hand landing flat on the mattress for balance. His hair falls over his shoulders, making a curtain around them--which he likes. It's private. It's just them anyway, but like this it feels even more so.]
I, [he says,] would do anything. [He leans in more, so his lips brush against Fugo's as he speaks, so they're nearly kissing but not quite.] Anything, Fugo, that you asked of me. If you want it, I'll give it to you. So ask me.
[And then--he ducks his head. Kisses Fugo at the hollow of his throat, where his neck and his collarbone form the perfect shape; he likes feeling it with his lips, the way it rises and falls with Fugo's breathing. He likes biting it, too, and he thinks--he's pretty sure--that when he bites down hard to make a mark, he's going to like it better with his fingers digging sharply into Fugo's thigh. He's almost certain Fugo will like it better that way, too.]
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God, [is what he says, or breathes out, because it's just too quiet to be a statement of fact. Fugo is so, so, so--reactive. Such a little thing, and he's twisting away and closer all at once, overwhelmed and so obviously pleased all at the same time. That, and the rest of it, it's just . . .]
[God. Fugo's got to be indulging him, at least partly; after all of this, he knows how much Giorno wants him, how not giving him more would be absolute agony, how he's spent a truly ridiculous amount of time thinking about touching him until he falls apart. There's a moment when he wants, more than anything, to lean in and drop every single thing he's thought about into Fugo's ear, to hold him close and run his fingers along Fugo's skin so lightly it's a little bit cruel. But.]
[If Fugo said it like that, his name--his names--and please, please, so needy, there's nothing in the world Giorno wouldn't do for him.]
[. . . Hm.]
Fugo, [he starts, mouth so dry he has to lick his lips before he can speak clearly.] I need you to know. I--
[I, I, I. But it was never really about him, was it? It was about them. It was about Fugo and him and where they meet, and how they meet, and how all the things there aren't words for can be said like this if they try hard enough. He wants to be as close to Fugo as he can and more. He wants to show Fugo with his hands and his mouth that he's worth everything in the world. That he deserves to feel good whenever he wants to. And how awfully, desperately Giorno wants to be the one to give him that.]
[He's quiet for a moment, just . . . looking. Staring intently at Fugo, so pink and so hazy. No amount of thinking about Fugo in this state could ever measure up to the reality. There's no inventing someone like Fugo. There just isn't.]
[Then, purposefully, he hooks his hand under Fugo's thigh. His fingers drift up and down for a moment or two; then they close and tug him forward, pull him in towards Giorno even as Giorno leans over him, his other hand landing flat on the mattress for balance. His hair falls over his shoulders, making a curtain around them--which he likes. It's private. It's just them anyway, but like this it feels even more so.]
I, [he says,] would do anything. [He leans in more, so his lips brush against Fugo's as he speaks, so they're nearly kissing but not quite.] Anything, Fugo, that you asked of me. If you want it, I'll give it to you. So ask me.
[And then--he ducks his head. Kisses Fugo at the hollow of his throat, where his neck and his collarbone form the perfect shape; he likes feeling it with his lips, the way it rises and falls with Fugo's breathing. He likes biting it, too, and he thinks--he's pretty sure--that when he bites down hard to make a mark, he's going to like it better with his fingers digging sharply into Fugo's thigh. He's almost certain Fugo will like it better that way, too.]